


With Hanging Grey Trees

by hawklies



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawklies/pseuds/hawklies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She spoke<br/>"Why bother?<br/>We're all just smoke."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Hanging Grey Trees

**Author's Note:**

> I've never seen the anime, or read the manga. This is based entirely off of this [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/marrobou/i-am-always-yours) and various fanart I've seen on tumblr.

            The grating sound of the lighter igniting made him jump. He stared at the flame, it was uncomfortably close to his face. That was rational, he noted, feeling uncomfortable that was, anyone would be having a flame inches from their mouth. Those people might not have let it burn on as long as he had, however. He blew it out, uncertain of why he had subconsciously lit it to begin with. It was a few seconds longer before he realized that there was a cigarette between his lips. He took it out and studied it, like he didn’t believe it was there. He decided that if he could get so far as lighting a fire in front of his face without realizing, that it was time to quit. He wouldn’t, but he thought about it. 

            The dried dirt that stretched out in front of the porch became caught in spiraling movements when the wind blew. He almost waited for the wind chime to jingle, before he remembered it was in the trash. It hadn’t rained in a while, and the occasional patches of grass looked crunchier than usual. His dog danced around on the patches, sniffing the same spots he always sniffed. He probably should have kept up with the yard, for appearances at least, but after a year or so it just became a hassle keeping everything alive. There was a lot of things he probably should have done. Like fix the damn step that creaked when the dog ran down it, or he came up it. But it all got filed away as too much of a hassle, and he let it be. Maybe there was a time when he cared about things like that, but it died out with the yard.

            The dog barked at the swirls of dirt, chasing them around to the side of the house, where he was likely to find more dirt. He never imagined himself to be the kind of person who just stopped. Nothing in his life moved forward, or changed. He followed the same mundane routine, doing the same mundane things. He might have been bored, if he would have cared. The dog seemed happy with his failed resolve, so he must have been doing something right.

            Every so often, he thought the world had frozen, and it was all just some weird dream. He wasn’t really a strange mangle of nothing and bones, he was a person. He cared. If he focused he could see the grass, green and bright and everywhere. He could hear the wind chimes he’d thrown in the trash months ago, the sky was blue and the house had color to it. There were plants along the railing of the porch, and the screen door didn’t have that hole in it. There was the smell of food on the stove, and he could almost pick out the smell of tea from the air. It was comforting. The dog was just a pup then, and he didn’t smoke nearly as often. He’d look to his side and find an angel, unfocused and quiet. It was always a struggle to bring the figure into focus, he tried with such desperation only to fail. Then, the dog would bark at a rabbit, or a car horn would sound in the distance. All of it would fade back into grey reality as his head jerked in the direction of the sound.

            The grey reality was that the one who mattered, the one who made him care, was dead. And that was it. That was reality, and no fantasy he thought up standing on the porch smoking was ever going to change it. He’d already tried.

            He dropped the remainder of his cigarette, and stomped it out with the heel of his boot. A short whistle brought the dog back to his side. He bent over and ruffled the short brown fur on its head. It pushed back against his hand in approval. The thought crossed his mind occasionally that he was holding the dog back from some kind of extravagant life. As if his misery somehow lessened the happiness radiating from the dog. He could probably find the dog another home. Then he thought that if the dog was any happier than it was when he scratched behind its ear, it’d probably explode. So he kept him. For the dog’s own sake.

            “He would have known what to do with you,” He said to the dog, who looked at him with some programed admiration and confusion at his voice. “He would have known what to do with me.”


End file.
